our beaches

our beaches are empty
of red umbrellas
and blue plastic shovels
and dancing people

our sands are not yellow
like a brightly painted nursery
but they are white like bones
and the sky is gray-but-still-blue
with busy, busy winds
that shake us

the sand gets into our clothes
and between our fingers
and the water chills us
so we flee the tide
and huddle like penguins
for warmth
inside the jacket that you brought

and the busy wind still blows
and cuts past our legs
bare and cold as steel
as we walk the long quarter-mile
to our car

the sun is still nowhere
and the sky is blue-but-still-gray
but the sand has smoothed our skin
and that skin having known the water
feels so soft

so as our bare feet climb the hill
(that we couldn’t wait to tumble down into the ocean
but now cannot wait to scramble back up)
though the busy wind still blows
and the sky is blue-but-still-gray
and our legs are still bare
our meager jacket makes us feel
hearth-warm